the lit fuse to his mortality always burned in one of them. he gave everyone he met a good look at it. that fuse looked like lucky strike unfiltered. two packs a day.

the smoke’d mesmerize me creeping from nostrils of his roman nose. it reminded me of silk. the kind that lines luxurious caskets. those grey rivers flowing from under his black mustache thrilled me. they poured like twenty-year-old scotch. the same they serve at plaza hotel funeral parties.

he presented grand spectacle after spectacle. each started with the click of a worn zippo. their level of skill was impressive for anyone. especially for a perpetually broke bus driver, card shark, and thief.

one born to illiterate parents who’d just stepped off ellis island.

to me those cigarettes smelled like the american dream. like everything he did, for better or worse, my poppy smoked like he meant it.

even during chemo.*

*

*no one except him could touch his guitar. ever.

“why’s it have that design around the hole and not the black tear-looking thing,” i ask.

he flips the instrument around and holds its back towards me. my green eyes absorb it. “made in spain” is branded onto the polished wood in neat stick letters.

“only mans ever made me jealous. plays thuh kinda stuff makes yuh sane, drives yuh crazy, and takes yuh back again. day yuh great nan sent my ‘ole man off uh ruff-top in harlum he was lissnun’ tuh jeng-go. we know ’cause he lef’ the reckuhd on the playuh. jang-go played music tuh live tuh. played some tuh die tuh too.”

as he finishes he makes the sign of the cross.

“everyone told me he fell. your mom pushed your dad off that roof?

“ma weren’t on tha’ roof with ‘im but she shore as shit pusht him awff. thuh way the ole’ man foldid ain’ uh simpull thing. you’s too young tuh unerstan’.”

“i’m not a little kid. only a couple months ’til i’m a legal adult. dad isn’t big on talking about dead family. i might never hear and really want to know. tell me. please poppy.”

still tuning, the half of his mouth not holding a lucky glides into a smile. he lays the guitar across his lap and moves the cigarette into his fingers.

“yuh know my folks came from naples righ’? tha’s in itlee.”

i feel a little insulted. with instant regret i interrupt.

“i know where naples is.”

he doesn’t care for this. his index and middle fingers point into my face. the lucky between them irritates my eyes.

“shuttup kid. i’m tawkin’ here.”

“sorry, sorry, sorry,” i repeat quickly looking towards the floor.

he continues, “naples, in itlee, is uh city where dumbies don’t las’. it’s uh city uh thieves. yuh learn quick an get tough fas’. if yuh don’t sumbuddy tha’ did might intraduce yup to uh straight razuh or pistull.”

he pauses. his expression seems more thoughtful. his words are slower when he resumes.

but it is. i’m ambling through the basement of my psyche to find him. or her. the one who blew the fuse to the light. one foot dream-stepping in front of the other i’m looking for trouble.*

*

*with clumsy purpose i wander to the street he lured me years back. the stretch of asphalt where i got a few of these scars. he’s still here with his friends in my memory.

the driver of the mercedes sedan holds the same glock 17. he’s nervous. he brought the tool of a killer without the right mind to operate it. the lump of metal and alloy’s more of a menacing accessory in his grip. he must be new to this.

the others are experienced craftsmen. they’re working with their hands though. they did the night i remember.

they all act like i’m not here. the streetlights are sparser in this part of my mind but i know they see me. i’ll wait. i’ve always waited years for this single moment of reckoning.

it’s my experience devils have blue eyes and darken a spirit as long as its owner needs them to. the same’s true for this guy who calls shots in the dark here.

his posture, as usual, is slouched. the windows to his soul are clear and lifeless. in this timeless neighborhood i can stare into them with nothing to lose. he knows why i’m here.

the toothpick’s spat on the ground. he turns his back and walks towards the car. opening a rear door he finishes.

“you politickin’. think you’s the only punk i twisted up? some other mo’fucka probly done handled my ass by now. i suggest you get to steppin’.”

in his own way he’s never lied. i can’t see why he’d start now.

the frightened driver turns the ignition key. i turn up my collar to the twilight of my neurons and stumble faster.*

*

*my stride focuses on my way into the bedroom.

this is where i shared newports (among other things) with him. he’s still here- wasting away below the surface of my consciousness.

i think he was a man once. where a soul used to be is a vacuous space now (and then). he offered it to me her with a clean syringe and an introduction to inner city projects.

an overflowing ashtray smolders. daylight’s filtering into the after-hours of my skull through drawn shades. i stand and watch him come in and out of consciousness.

his pollack face is still prettier than mine. his volcanic blue eyes still brim with dull energy.

during a slip into existence he notices me. a smile finds his lips before they mumble, “why the fuck would you come back to this shithole? there’s nothing here for you. what’re you going to do? kill me?”

he forces a weak laugh and fumbles for a smoke. he resumes after lighting the last cigarette in a soft pack of newports.

“i’ll save you the effort soon. if i haven’t already. you’re wasting your time. get out of my god damn bedroom.”

in his own way he’s never lied. i can’t see why he’d start now.

lids close over his dilated eyes. he drifts back into non-existence and i take the burning cigarette from his fingers. before starting a quicker gait i fill my lungs with a long drag.*

a pen in her short digits marks an onion crossword. as usual she’s unaware. i’m not discouraged because i have all night. in my cranium that’s an indefinite amount of time, and i’ve already given her most of myself.

standing toe-toe with her a truth connects a haymaker to my thoughts- this isn’t an act. it never was.

she’s oblivious to herself. oblivious to me.

in her own way she never lied. i can’t see why she’d start now.

she finishes her crossword. my visit’s finished. my sprint starts to the only one left to blame. the person i’d prayed i would never need to look in the eyes again.*

*

*the dead-bolt on the door to this apartment of my brain’s tricky.

i manage none-the-less. a misspent youth helps with misbehaving locks. i drop my bag next to the door and take a piss. aggravated, i notice there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom.

*she lives in the ghetto. church ave. last stop off the g train. her place is down an alley carpeted in cracked concrete and up a flight of narrow stairs.

the two puntable dogs scurrying around the floor irritate me. probably because they lick shoes. i joke about taking them to prospect park to release them into the wild. she doesn’t laugh. i realize the comment wasn’t funny.